I came to the game in the middle innings, so I can’t profess to know what happened before.

I sit in the bleachers, not on the field…so, I can’t claim to play any significant role in how the game is played.

I have not the faintest clue as to how to take this medium and make it profitable.

All I know, what I fervently believe…is that there are voices that need to be heard. When the information stream is kidnapped and and gangraped somebody must form the resistance and fight for its honor.

Warehousing a place for the common good, a safe haven and a welcoming port of entry is a brilliant concept that should be kept alive. Nobody alone should shoulder that burden, not if it is indeed a place for common advancement of honorable ideals.

Internal squabbling and finger pointing leaves the antagonist assholes above smirking in delight as they relish their stolen sophistry.

Jeff and Dan have value, Bob Owens has value, Ed and Hot Air have value, Glenn has value, Ace has value, the Anchoress has value, Bill Whittle has value etc. And Roger along with PJM itself …they have value.

It would seem to me that finding a way to achieve common goals is of universal benefit to this overall movement to restore the stolen honor and integrity of our kidnapped and gang raped informaton stream.

But again, I don’t have a name on my uniform, I don’t even have a uniform and haven’t grabbed a bat to take my swings. I’m just sitting in the bleachers making notes in my scorecard. For what it was worth…I have loved and treasured all of you. You are the heroes on the field. I just don’t want to watch you fight with each other in the dugout. I am but one fan, lost in a sea of of anonymous faces…that you don’t hear applauding loud enough, often enough. Set your ears to the wind, you can still hear us cheering and I will be standing in ovation, out in your centerfield bleachers. Play on. The game has not ended. Play on. For those of us that you inspire, play on.

Together, somehow…play on.